


Like the Rain

by BreTheWriter



Series: Hold Me Like You'll Never Let Me Go [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Spoilers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is worried about Phil. Tony is worried about Fitz. And neither of them are quite prepared for the aftermath of their new friends' hunt for Grant Ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purpleyedemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyedemon/gifts).



            Clint had absolutely no qualms whatsoever about admitting that he’d been sitting on the roof for the better part of the last day and a half, watching the horizon and worrying.

            He hadn’t really gotten the chance to get to know, _really_ know, most of the people in the little team, but what little he did know, he liked. He’d met Trip before, just in passing really, but he was a good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a good man. Melinda May, of course, was a legend within the organization, and from what Clint had seen she deserved that status. Skye could almost have been Tony’s long-lost daughter—she had his coloring, his brains, and his attitude—and Fitz was a good kid, brilliant but innocent and trusting. Simmons was young but seemed fairly typical of the female recruits for S.H.I.E.L.D.—a silk sheath over a blade of steel, pretty and petite but sharp and sturdy; she might be too much of a lab rat to be much good in a firefight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t one hell of an asset.

            And then there was Phil.

            Clint was still reeling from the shock of finding out that Phil was _alive._ For two years, he’d believed the official word from S.H.I.E.L.D., that Agent Philip J. Coulson had been killed by Loki during the Battle of Manhattan. Clint had been heartbroken, started drinking, going from bar to bar and getting drunk until he passed out. Tony had saved him, prompted by Natasha—he’d gone into a bar and brought Clint out, given him a safe place to stay until he sobered up, got him to go to AA with him. They were both completely sober now; Clint had just passed his six-month mark, while Tony had made it more than a year. And they’d formed a friendship.

            Then, two days before, while they were desperately trying to find out how many of their colleagues and friends were still alive, Skye and Phil had shown up on Tony’s doorstep.

            Which was why Clint was now sitting on the roof, scanning for any sign of the team’s return. They’d gone to hunt down Grant Ward, a former member of their team who had turned out to be a HYDRA sleeper agent, who had betrayed all of them. Phil had promised to return as soon as he could. Clint was a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, with nearly twenty years of service, so he knew how uncertain things could be; he knew that, despite what Phil had said, he likely wouldn’t be able to return immediately after catching Ward. Missions were rarely so clear-cut, they seldom ended when you thought they were going to.

            But he could hope.

            He heard footsteps behind him, and a moment later, Tony was at his side, two cups of coffee in his hands. They drank a lot of coffee these days. “Anything yet?” he asked, handing one of the cups to Clint.

            Clint shook his head, accepting the mug. “Nada.”

            Tony sighed. His eyes were worried as he scanned the area around them. “The longer they’re gone, the more I worry.”

            “You know Phil’s not gonna let anything happen if he can help it,” Clint said.

            “I know, but it’s the ‘if he can help it’ part that’s worrying me. Even Phil can’t be everywhere. And I really don’t think they know what this Ward guy is really like.”

            “They all saw the footage, Tony.”

            “Yeah, but that’s—that’s just a soldier following orders.” Tony ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “That’s what we all thought at the time, that Ward was just rescuing his commanding officer because he had instructions to do it. We didn’t know the depths he’d really sink to.”

            “You think he knew his brother was in there?” Clint asked quietly.

            Tony nodded. “I’d bet my life on it.”

            “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

            They were silent for a while, watching for any sign of B.E.C.K.A., or a plane, or _something_. Finally, Tony said, “I finished repairs on Lola. She should be good as new. I reinforced the windows and updated the seatbelts, too. They’re more harness-type now, one-touch on and off, so she’ll be a little safer.”

            “You didn’t go too crazy on the upgrades, did you?” Clint asked. “Phil’s touchy about that car.”

            “Nah, I left it alone other than that. I just thought he might like a little extra protection against, you know, getting shot or falling out of the car or whatever.”

            Clint couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, there is that.” He looked back up the road again. “You know, it’s awful, but I almost don’t care if he was successful or not. I just want to see him again.”

            “How do you do it?” Tony asked.

            “Do what?” Clint asked, startled. “Make a relationship work when we’re both in danger so often?”

            “No. How do you just…forgive so easily?”

            Clint was really startled. “What do you mean?”

            Tony kept his eyes on the horizon. “He’s gone for two years. You thought he was dead. He _knew_ you thought he was dead, and he let you think that. Then he turns up again and you just—throw yourself into his arms, tell him it doesn’t matter. How do you forgive something like that?”

            Clint remembered that, even though Tony was about six months older than he was, and a certified genius, he’d never really been in a long-term relationship before Pepper, and that had only been going on for two or three years. “Phil and I fight, sure, that’s part of any relationship, but we agreed long ago that we don’t go to bed angry with each other. When we were younger, I didn’t forgive so easily. We’d have fights, get angry, not talk to each other beyond the parameters of whatever mission we were working, and finally one of us would cave and apologize, which was the signal for the other to apologize and we’d make up.”

            He leaned against a projecting bit of masonry. “We’d been together for…a year, maybe, when we had one of our blow-ups. It was a _really_ nasty one…don’t remember what it was about, but we were both absolutely furious. We didn’t talk for almost a week beyond what was required when we met in the halls at the Triskelion. We pulled a mission and…it went all to hell. My backup…didn’t, and I got caught by the people we were trying to take out. Spent almost a week in a windowless cell underground being tortured before a recovery team found me. And the whole time I was there, all I could think was that I was going to die and Phil was going to think I’d died hating him. They wanted information from me, I wouldn’t give it to them, and they finally got tired of waiting. I was actually kneeling on the floor with a gun pressed to the back of my head when the recovery team got there.”

            “Jesus,” Tony whispered.

            “I was in the hospital for three days after that,” Clint continued. “You know, dehydration, malnutrition, plus the injuries, bruises, cracked ribs, that kind of thing. I wanted Phil there so bad, but I didn’t feel like I had the right to ask for him, not until I heard him fighting like hell with the nurses to get them to let him into my room. I sat up—which didn’t help my ribs, by the way—and begged them to let him in. I barely let the nurse get out of the way before I kissed him. Both of us were crying and trying to apologize at the same time. Anyway, that’s why I forgave him so quickly. Because being angry with him isn’t worth the pain of having something happen to him and the last thing I said to him having been something hateful and angry.”

            “But you didn’t know—”

            “What? That he’d leave so quickly? Tony, the only thing Phil Coulson loves more than me is S.H.I.E.L.D., and that’s one of the things I love about him. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. I knew damned well that he wouldn’t stay, not with all the crap that’s going on. From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew I’d be lucky if he stayed the night. And I was. Lucky, I mean.” Clint softened at the thought of his lover. “I love him, Tony. I wasn’t going to waste a single second of the precious little time we had together by being angry at him for something that can’t be changed now.”

            Tony shook his head. “You know, I forget sometimes that I’m older than you are, and arguably smarter.”

            “You have a higher IQ than I do,” Clint corrected him. “And a college degree. I have more experience in the real world than you do. I’ve seen more of human nature than you have. People are themselves with me because I’m not worth putting on a front for—I can’t do anything for them. And I’ve been in a relationship with the same man for almost twenty years. Pepper’s your first serious relationship, isn’t she?”

            Tony gave Clint that little half-smile of his. “All good points.”

            Clint was about to say anything when he heard the distant sound of a motor. He looked around quickly, but all he saw was a black helicopter in the distance.

            “Is that S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue?” Tony asked, following his gaze.

            “No,” Clint said. “Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be using it, though.”

            After a moment, Tony said, “I think they _are_ using that one, because that helicopter is coming straight for us.”

            “I _hope_ they’re using that one, because I left my bow downstairs,” Clint replied, watching. He couldn’t quite make out the pilot, since the windscreen was heavily tinted, but Phil and May both knew how to fly…

            Tony and Clint both backed up as the helicopter got closer. As it hovered over the rooftop, beginning to descend, the door rolled back and a figure appeared, long hair blowing in the wind.

            “Simmons!” Tony and Clint shouted in unison.

            The helicopter was still four feet off the ground when Simmons jumped out. She bent her knees as she landed, absorbing the impact, and then she straightened up, ran towards them, and threw her arms around Tony’s neck.

            Tony looked startled, but he hugged the young woman back. “Are you all right?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the chopper blades.

            Simmons didn’t speak. She just shook her head quickly. Clint looked anxiously towards the chopper, but didn’t see anyone else coming towards the door, even as it finally touched down and the great blades began slowing down. Turning back to Simmons, he asked, “How’d it go? Did you—”

            “It’s not over,” Simmons said, her voice slightly muffled in Tony’s shoulder. She pulled back and wiped her eyes, which were extremely red. “I—can I ask a huge favor of you?” She looked up at Tony as she spoke.

            “Name it,” Tony said immediately.

            “Fitz. Can he—” Simmons swallowed hard. “Can he stay with you?”

            The worried expression returned to Tony’s face immediately. “Of course. Aren’t the rest of you staying, too?”

            “It’s just me right now. I—I have to get back to the team. But Fitz…” Simmons’ eyes filled with tears again. “He’s hurt. He needs a lot of rest, and I…I thought he’d be safer here than—than wherever I’m going.”

            “We’ll take care of him,” Tony promised, although he still looked worried. “Where is he?”

            Simmons turned back to the helicopter and climbed back in. A minute later, two people stepped out. Clint recognized them as a pair of agents on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical extraction team. Between them, they carried—a stretcher, draped in a white sheet. Clint’s heart leapt into his throat as Simmons came out behind them, biting her lip as she looked down at the prone form.

            “Oh, Jesus,” Tony whispered.

            Clint could see that his friend was rigid with shock. He decided to take charge. “Come on,” he said, turning for the door. “Let’s get him situated.”

            Tony came to himself and followed Clint into the house. The two medicos followed with the stretcher, and Simmons brought up the rear. Clint led the way to one of the guest rooms, the one closest to the wing where Tony and Clint slept, figuring that would be the best way for them all to keep an eye on one another, and pointed to the bed. “This good?” he asked Tony.

            “Yeah…yeah, that’s good,” Tony said, seeming dazed.

            The two agents lowered the stretcher to the floor. “Hold this,” one—Clint thought his name was Agent Larsen—said, handing a bag of clear fluids to Tony. Tony automatically took the bag as the two agents carefully lifted Fitz off the stretcher and got him onto the bed.

            The kid looked _terrible._ His complexion was ashen, his breathing shallow. A dozen small cuts were taped shut all over his face, and his left arm was encased in a cast almost up to the elbow. The bag of fluids was attached to an IV line that snaked into his arm, probably keeping him hydrated, possibly giving him some sort of pain medication. Clint swallowed hard and looked up at Simmons. “What happened?”

            Simmons trembled, hugging herself as she looked down at Fitz’s face. “Ward,” she said in a low voice. “He…we were on the Bus in one of the pods, and he jettisoned it into the ocean. Fitz broke his arm on impact. He blew out one of the windows and rigged an empty oxygen bottle to give me a quick burst of air, but…there wasn’t any for him and he…” She closed her eyes tightly, biting her lips, and when she spoke again, it was obvious she was only just holding back tears. “I tried to get him to the surface, but I almost wasn’t quick enough…”

            “You _were,_ ” Clint reassured her, crossing over to put an arm around her shoulders. “You saved him.”

            Two more medical agents that Clint hadn’t noticed came through the door, one pushing a metal drip stand and the other wheeling an oxygen tank. The one with the drip stand took the bag from Tony, hanging it on the stand. The other clapped a mask over Fitz’s face, then turned to Tony and Clint. “We’ll leave a few more bags of fluids for you, keep them in the refrigerator. Can you monitor his respiration?”

            “J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Clint asked.

            “I am already doing so, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied promptly.

            “When he starts breathing better on his own, you can take the mask off. Hopefully he’ll be ready for that in a day or two. He’s still unconscious, obviously, and until he’s conscious there’s no way of knowing how much brain damage there might be, if any.” Simmons let out a faint moan of distress, and Clint hugged her a little tighter as the agent continued, “You know the drill as well as anyone who’s not trained in medicine, Barton. I’m sure he’ll be safe here.”

            “We’ll take care of him,” Clint promised. He wasn’t really talking to the medical agents, though; he was concentrating on Simmons.

            Tony pulled himself together and looked at Simmons. “You can stay, you know,” he said softly. “We’ve got plenty of room.”

            Simmons looked helplessly at Fitz, then shook her head. “No, I—I have to go.”

            Clint nodded. He understood. Tony nodded, too, very slowly. “Hang on a minute,” he said, heading out the door.

            The medical agents also turned for the door. “Agent Simmons, we need to go,” one warned her.

            “I’ll be right there,” Simmons said softly.

            The agent looked at Clint suspiciously, then followed his comrades out. A moment later, Tony came back in and pressed a device into Simmons’ hand. “Here. Take this with you.”

            “What is it?” Simmons looked down at the device, which looked very much like a common cell phone.

            “It’s not exactly a cell phone and it’s not exactly a walkie-talkie,” Tony explained. “It’s like a cell phone in that it’ll work anywhere, but it will only communicate with its mate.” He held up another device. “And it’s virtually untraceable, so it won’t give away your position. Call any time you want, okay? And I promise, the minute he wakes up, I’ll give you a call.”

            Simmons nodded slowly. “How does it work?”

            “Pretty simple. If I call you, opening it will start communication, closing it will cut it off. If you want to call, press the big green button, and close to cut off. And it will go through, Simmons. It’ll always go through. I guarantee it.”

            “Thank you,” Simmons whispered, pocketing the device. “I—I should probably go.”

            Tony stopped her. “One more thing.”

            “What’s that?”

            Tony handed her a Sharpie. “I think you should do Fitz the honor of being the first to sign his cast.”

            Simmons stared at him, then uncapped the marker and walked over to Fitz’s bedside. She bent over and scribbled something on his arm before capping the marker and placing it on the nightstand. Starting to straighten, something made her pause. She looked down at Fitz’s limp form for a minute, then bent over and kissed his forehead swiftly before hurrying out of the room.

            “I’ll follow her,” Clint said in an undertone to Tony. “You stay here with him.”

            “Yeah…yeah.” Tony edged around the bed and sat down next to Fitz. Tentatively, he reached out one hand and touched Fitz’s hair.

            Clint followed Simmons up to the rooftop. The helicopter was starting up, its blades beginning to whir. The whack of wind tossed Simmons’ long hair around again as she stepped out onto the roof. A figure appeared in the doorway of the ‘copter, gripping the frame in one hand and holding out the other towards Simmons. Clint’s heart leapt into his throat, his eyes widening. The figure wore knockabout clothes, its eyes hidden behind almost-black sunglasses, but there was no disguising that face from anyone who had ever worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.

            It was unmistakably Nick Fury.

            “Simmons, let’s go,” he said gruffly over the noise of the blades. He looked back at Clint and pressed a finger to his lips. Clint nodded in understanding. For one reason or another, Fury had decided to trust him. He would have to be worthy of that.

            Simmons moved towards the helicopter, stretching out her hand towards Fury. In a minute she would be aboard and gone. It didn’t seem right to let her go without saying something.

            “Simmons,” Clint called.

            Simmons had just reached out to take the hand. She paused and looked back over her shoulder, her eyes full of worry.

            “Give Phil my love, will you?” Clint requested.

            A small smile tugged at Simmons’ lips. “I will,” she promised.

            She allowed herself to be pulled onto the helicopter. The door slid shut behind her and the helicopter lifted off. Clint stayed where he was, watching as it rose higher and moved away. Soon it was a distant black speck against the sky. Then it was gone.

            “Good luck,” he murmured under his breath. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned and headed back inside.

* * *

            They took turns sitting vigil at Fitz’s bedside.

            It wasn’t just Tony and Clint, although naturally they did most of it. Fitz had been lying in his bed for twenty-two hours when Pepper and Hill came by, ostensibly on Stark Industries business but really to ask about a few former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents Tony had promised to run down. Initially they’d been exasperated when Tony had said he hadn’t had time to look, but that had changed the second they heard about Fitz. The two women had insisted that Tony and Clint get some rest while they took a turn on watch.

            Partly because of his normal insomnia and partly because of how worried he was, Tony didn’t think he slept more than an hour over the next couple of days. He spent most of his free time sitting by Fitz’s bedside, watching to make sure he was still breathing, occasionally talking to him but mostly just sitting in silence. Two days after he’d been brought to the house, Fitz’s breathing evened out enough that they were able to remove the oxygen mask, although Tony kept it on hand just in case.

            He was worried—no, damn it, he was _scared._ He barely knew this team, Phil’s team, but he and Fitz had bonded in the short time they’d known each other. It wasn’t so much that Fitz reminded Tony of himself—if anyone on Phil’s team reminded Tony of himself, it was Skye—but Fitz was what Tony, deep down, wished he’d been able to be. He had a brilliant mind, but he was innocent and trusting. He still believed there was good in everybody.

            Or at least, he _had._ Nobody had ever betrayed Fitz before. Nobody had ever made him trust them and then broken his heart. Not until now. And Ward had not only betrayed Fitz, he had actively tried to kill him. Even if he recovered physically, even if there were no bad effects from the drowning itself, Tony doubted that Fitz would ever be the same. On the surface, that was probably a good thing; presenting such an innocent heart to the world was _asking_ to have it broken. But maybe because Tony had never had that innocence in himself—he’d been old and jaded long before his time—he’d wanted to protect it in Fitz as long as possible.

            And now it was gone.

            Assuming Fitz—no. Tony terminated that line of thought immediately. Fitz would survive. He _had_ to. Tony was still alive after all the crap he’d been through, and he hardly deserved that. Fitz deserved so much better. He had to survive.

            It was early evening on the third day since Fitz had arrived at the house. Tony sat at the young man’s bedside, watching him sleep. Well, it wasn’t quite sleep, it was a borderline coma, but still. At the very least, his breathing was even and regular. The IV was keeping him pretty well hydrated. And his arm was immobilized by the cast. The black writing was difficult to decipher upside-down, and Tony hadn’t tried; it was a message from Simmons to Fitz, not to Tony. The curtains were closed and the lights were low but not too low, so that when Fitz woke up he could see but the light wouldn’t hurt his eyes.

            And Tony sat perfectly still, his hands clasped in front of him, keeping his silent vigil. Clint was either sifting through the files Natasha had released to the world or practicing his archery or making an inventory of the food in the kitchen in preparation for the shopping expedition they’d both been putting off for nearly two weeks now. Tony’s focus was wholly on Fitz, on making sure he kept breathing and recovered, hopefully soon.

            Suddenly, for the first time since he’d been brought in, Fitz shifted, screwing up his face and groaning softly. Tony sat up straighter, watching anxiously.

            “Jemma,” Fitz mumbled. Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he looked around. “Jemma,” he gasped, obviously starting to panic, trying to sit up, his eyes wide.

            “Easy, easy,” Tony said quickly, putting a lightly restraining hand on Fitz’s shoulder and pushing him back against the bed. “It’s okay, kid. You’re safe. Settle down.”

            “Jemma,” Fitz said again. He was starting to hyperventilate. “Jemma—where is she? Is she—”

            “Calm down, kid,” Tony said, as gently as possible. “She’s fine. She’s with the rest of your team, but you need to stay calm, all right?”

            Fitz locked eyes with Tony. He still looked terrified. Tony reached over and pushed his hair back from his forehead, a little jerkily at first, but after a moment it settled into a gentle, tender gesture, as close to fatherly or brotherly a man who’d grown up alone could get. Slowly, Fitz began to relax, his breathing evening out and settling into a steady rhythm again.

            “Where are they?” he croaked out at last.

            Tony stopped petting Fitz’s head—the kid wasn’t a cat, after all—but he didn’t go too far away, just in case. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t. I’m guessing they’re somewhere safe, though.”

            “Then how did I…get here?” Fitz asked.

            “Simmons dropped you off,” Tony answered. “In a helicopter. There were other S.H.I.E.L.D. people there, but I don’t know who. I offered to let her stay, but…she had to get back to the rest of your team. She’ll be back, though,” he added. “They all will. You know that. Phil Coulson doesn’t make promises lightly.”

            “I know,” Fitz said weakly. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and asked, “How long has it been?”

            “Three days,” Tony admitted. “You were in pretty bad shape. From what Simmons said, you practically drowned.”

            Fitz nodded slowly. “I—I remember.”

            Tony scooted a little closer. “Want to talk about it? What do you remember?” he prompted gently. It was partly because he genuinely wanted to know the details, partly because he knew it would help to talk about, and partly because he wanted to test Fitz’s memory. He was talking, he seemed to know who Tony was—at least he wasn’t panicking—and he sure remembered Simmons, but there still might be holes in his memory.

            “You were right,” Fitz whispered. He suddenly looked broken. “You were right about everything.”

            “I usually like hearing that,” Tony said quietly, “and it never really surprises me, but right about now, I’d give every penny I possess to have been wrong. Go on, kid. Tell me what happened.”

            Fitz closed his eyes and breathed for a few moments before looking back at Tony. There were tears in his eyes. “We were…in Cuba. Cybertek had a base. Jemma and I…went to track down the Bus. The others were…looking for a computer. Skye had installed a Trojan…she had to activate it.” He swallowed. “We found it…it was leaving. Coulson told us…to get out and…meet up with them again. We were going to…send one of the D.W.A.R.F. drones…to make tracking easier. I was getting it…when Ward caught us. He dragged us…onto the Bus. Garrett was there…and Reyna…and some other HYDRA agents.”

            Tony knew who Garrett was, but he’d never heard of Reyna. Still, he kept silent as Fitz continued. “I had a gadget…part of the Howling Commandos’ equipment…that shorted out electricity in the vicinity. Ward thought it was a joy buzzer. I activated it…and Garrett shorted out. He was…part machine…the original Deathlok project…and the electronics were…keeping him alive.”

            “So you killed him,” Tony said softly. He couldn’t quite keep the regret out of his voice. He’d only ever killed someone in self-defense, but still, it had never sat well with him…he couldn’t imagine it sitting well with this poor kid.

            But Fitz shook his head, slowly and painfully. “He wasn’t…dead yet. Ward…tried to save him. Other agents…were going to lock us up…but we broke free. Ward was there…” He closed his eyes briefly, and when he spoke again, his voice was shaking. “We locked ourselves in a pod…so he couldn’t get at us. I begged him…not to do this…told him he was better than that. I tried…but he…he ejected the pod. We landed in the ocean…it shouldn’t have sunk…but it did. I braced our backs, but…broke my arm, Jemma knocked out…”

            “God, kid,” Tony murmured.

            “I built an…emergency beacon,” Fitz continued. “Not a very strong signal…but it was all I could manage. Jemma and I…thought we were going to die…” The tears welled up in his eyes again. “I was so scared…”

            Tony reached over and squeezed Fitz’s shoulder gently. “I would have been, too. Remember what I said? It’s okay to be scared.”

            Fitz nodded slowly. He licked his lips, then said, “We…we figured out that we could…blow the seal on the window and escape. I found an oxygen bottle…it was empty, but…I rigged it to give one high-pressure blast…so Jemma could get enough air to—to make it ninety feet or so. I told her to take it. She tried to argue…”

            “You were willing to sacrifice yourself for her,” Tony said, staring at Fitz. As terrified as the kid has been, as young as he was, as much as he must not have wanted to die, he had been willing to give his last breath to make sure that Simmons made it to the surface safely, had been willing to die if it meant she would live.

            “I love her,” Fitz said quietly.

            “Yeah, I kind of got that.”

            “She’s the better swimmer anyway. With my arm…”

            “She was scared to death,” Tony told him. “When she showed up here. She blamed herself for you getting hurt—said she hadn’t been fast enough.”

            “No,” Fitz said quickly. “It wasn’t her fault…she shouldn’t have wasted air trying to…save me.”

            “You really thought she was going to leave you behind?” Tony said softly. “She loves you, too, kid. And like I said, she was perfectly fine when she showed up. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious, not that I noticed. Certainly she was well enough to go back and help your team.”

            “That’s good,” Fitz said softly. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

            Tony gave Fitz a small half-smile, brushing his hair back from his forehead again. “You’re a damn hero, you know that?”

            “Me?” Fitz looked surprised. “I’m not a hero.”

            “You believed there was still good in Ward when no one else did, and tried to save him when no one else thought he was worth saving,” Tony pointed out. “You came up with a plan to save the woman you love even though you were almost completely certain that you would die as a result, and you were willing to do that if it meant she would live. Remember what I told you the other day, about bravery? You proved that ten times over. You _are_ a hero, Fitz, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.” His smile widened. “Steve Rogers would be proud of you. Nick Fury would have been proud of you. I know Phil Coulson will be.”

            “You really think so?”

            “I know so.” Tony sat back a little. “And I’m proud of you.”

            Fitz managed a smile. “Thank you,” he whispered. “That…that means a lot.”

            There were a couple minutes of silence. Then Tony slid a hand into his pocket. “Hey, kid…do you feel up to a phone conversation?”

* * *

            Jemma wondered, for the millionth time in the past few days, whether or not it was the right time to suggest to Coulson that they head back to Malibu, even just for the afternoon.

            The team knew that Fitz was safe with Stark. Jemma had told them the minute Billy Koenig had gotten them settled in the secret facility they called the Playground, which—for now—was S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, the Triskelion and the Hub both having been compromised and then destroyed. She had repeated Stark’s promise that he would call the minute Fitz woke up, and she’d passed Barton’s love on to Coulson, and then…well, they’d been so busy getting set up that they hadn’t really had time to discuss the situation.

            But Jemma’s thoughts were only half on her work. She had never felt complete without Fitz; he was her best friend and lab partner, and they worked as a unit so often that someone had once joked they shared a brain. After his revelation in the pod, however—which had awoken a revelation in her as well—she especially missed him.

            Fitz _loved_ her.

            And more startling, although in retrospect it probably shouldn’t have been, was the realization that she loved him back.

            It wasn’t, Jemma reasoned, as though she was the only one with a pressing reason to return to Malibu. Stark could probably help them in the rebuilding of S.H.I.E.L.D. Certainly he could give them the names of agents who were definitely still loyal. It would at least give them a starting point.  And Coulson undoubtedly missed Barton—after all, he’d promised to return, and that quickly. Yes, they were busy, but surely they could spare an afternoon or two.

            They were eating dinner together. Jemma didn’t have much of an appetite, but she knew she had to eat, she had to sustain herself, she couldn’t squander the precious gift of live Fitz had given her. He’d been willing to sacrifice his life for hers, she couldn’t waste that. She was just about to try and choke something down when the ringing started.

            Coulson looked up from his plate with a frown. “What’s that?”

            The others looked up in various states of confusion. Jemma started to frown as well when she realized that the ringing was coming from her own pocket. Hastily, she fumbled for the device Stark had given her. Sure enough, a light was flashing.

            “It’s Stark,” she breathed, her eyes lighting up.

            Coulson laid down his fork as Jemma pushed hastily away from the table, took a few unnecessary steps away, and flipped the device open. “Hello?” she said, feeling her heart rate increase.

            “Simmons?” Stark’s voice came over with surprising clarity, considering they were underground and who knew how far away. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

            Jemma drew her breath in. A moment later, she heard another voice, soft and a little raspy but nevertheless perfectly identifiable. “Jemma?”

            “Fitz,” Jemma half-sobbed, feeling the tears well up in her eyes even as she smiled. “How are you? Are you—” She stopped herself from asking _Are you all right?_ Of course he wasn’t all right. He’d nearly drowned three days previously.

            “I miss you.” Fitz’s voice cracked slightly. “Are you—are you all right?”

            “I’m fine,” Jemma assured him. “I miss you, too. We all do,” she added, turning back towards the rest of the team, who were all watching her intently.

            “You saved me,” Fitz said.

            Jemma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Of course I did, you idiot. What, did you expect me to leave you down there?”

            “Yes,” Fitz answered. Jemma froze, her lips parting slightly. Coulson stood up from the table, looking worried, as Fitz continued. “You didn’t have enough air. You could have died. You should have—”

            “No, stop it,” Jemma interrupted, trying to quell her rising panic. “Don’t ever ask me to leave you behind again, Fitz. I won’t do it. Maybe there wasn’t anything I could have done, but—but I had to try.” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound very convincing, even to herself. “After what you said, you really thought I could just walk away?”

            There was a brief pause, and at first Jemma thought the connection had been dropped or that Fitz had fallen asleep, but then he spoke so softly she almost didn’t catch the words. “I couldn’t let you go without letting you know.”

            “I’m glad you did,” Jemma said softly. “And I—I know I didn’t tell you, but—I feel the same.”

            “Really?” Fitz sounded hopeful.

            “Of course, you idiot,” Jemma said again.

            Again there was the brief pause before Fitz spoke again. “How’s—how are the others?”

            “They’re fine, they’re all fine.” Jemma looked up and saw that not only was Coulson standing, but Skye and May and even Trip. “Hold on, I’m—let me figure out how to put you on speaker…”

            “Speaker?” Fitz repeated.

            Jemma fumbled with the device. Before she could figure out how Stark had built this crazy contraption, Fitz said in a careful, distinct voice. “Red button…on the side.”

            Jemma located the button in question and pressed it, holding the phone out in front of her. The other four clustered around, forming a small circle. “Can you hear me?” she asked, making an effort to speak normally.

            “Yeah,” Fitz said. His voice was a little tinny, but still clear. “I can hear you.”

            Smiles broke out all around.  “Hey, Fitz,” Skye said, the relief in her voice evident. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

            “Good to hear you, too,” Fitz replied.

            “How are you feeling?” Coulson asked.

            “Better,” Fitz answered. “Sir—I’m sorry, I should have—”

            Coulson shook his head quickly. “No,” he said firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Fitz. You did everything right.” He hesitated, glancing up at the others, then added, “I’m proud of you.”

            Jemma glowed as Fitz swallowed audibly. “Thank you, sir.”

            May leaned forward a little, a half-smile on her face. “Stark treating you all right?”

            “Yeah,” Fitz said. “I wish you all were here, though.”

            Jemma and Skye both looked imploringly at Coulson, whose expression softened. “We’ll be there to see you soon, Fitz.”

            “Did you…did you get…them?” Fitz asked, with obvious difficulty.

            “We got them,” Coulson confirmed. “Garrett’s dead.”

            Jemma waited anxiously, knowing what Fitz’s next question would be. She wasn’t disappointed. “Ward?”

            “Alive,” May said shortly.

            “But in custody,” Trip added, speaking for the first time.

            “Good.” Fitz’s voice was so soft as to be nearly inaudible. “That’s good.”

            His voice was fading. Jemma realized that, short as it was, the conversation had probably exhausted him. “Get some rest, Fitz,” she said. “Okay? You get plenty of rest for when we come see you.”

            “I will,” Fitz promised. “Jemma…”

            “I know,” Jemma said softly.  “Me, too.”

            She waited, but there was no response. Instead, Stark’s voice came over. “You guys still there?”

            “We’re still here,” Coulson confirmed. He looked worried again. “Seriously, Tony, how is he?”

            “Alive,” Stark replied, a little wearily. “Weak, but alive. Obviously tired—he just closed his eyes and went straight to sleep—but it _is_ sleep, it’s not a coma. The cuts and bruises are healing nicely. Far as I can tell, his arm’s gonna heal clean. He’s been breathing on his own for the last—J.A.R.V.I.S., how long’s it been?—twenty-seven hours.”

            “Brain damage?” Jemma asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort. She hadn’t forgotten the medical agent’s comment.

            “Not as far as I can tell. I asked him to tell me what happened, and he remembered in pretty good detail. Didn’t really have a chance to test out his long-term memory, but he seemed like he recognized me and he knew where he was. So whatever damage there was, it doesn’t look like it’s too serious, or too permanent. Good job getting him out, Agent Simmons.”

            “She’s one hell of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Coulson said, looking up at Jemma with a smile. She blushed, a little embarrassed.

            “Your whole team is made up of them,” Stark replied. “You ought to be proud of them.”

            “I am,” Coulson said quietly. “Immensely proud.”

            Jemma wasn’t the only one visibly embarrassed by that. When Stark spoke again, however, his voice was deeply serious. “I won’t ask if your mission was successful or not, because I know that’s kind of a fluid question, but I will ask…did you get Ward?”

            “We got him. Well,” Coulson corrected himself, “Agent May got him. He hasn’t said a whole lot, though. Hard to talk with a fractured larynx.”

            “I hope you got video of that, because I’d love to see the bastard get what was coming to him.”

            “Oh, I didn’t even scratch the surface of what he deserves,” May said, her eyes flashing darkly. Jemma suppressed a shiver; May could be really frightening sometimes.

            “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Stark’s voice took on a more urgent tone. “I did some research into his background.”

            “You mean you read his S.H.I.E.L.D. file,” Coulson said.

            “No,” Stark said. “Well, yeah, I did, but I also did some digging. You’ve read his file, right?”

            “Yeah,” Coulson, May, and Skye said in unison. Somehow that didn’t surprise Jemma—that May and Skye had both read Ward’s file.

            “Okay. So tell me, what does it say about his past?”

            The three agents looked at one another. Coulson gestured to Skye, who said slowly, “He—had a rough home life. Well, I mean, he told me that, but it’s in his file, too. He went to military school, and then he ran away. Something like…six months, maybe a year later, John Garrett found him in the woods in Wisconsin and—and trained him personally, until he got accepted into S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            Which probably should have told them something, Jemma thought grimly to herself. She didn’t even know how long the period of time was between Garrett finding Ward and Ward getting into the Academy, but she guessed it was more than a matter of weeks, or even months. It had to have been at least a year. And if he’d been living homeless for more than six months…

            “Yeah, see, that’s bullshit,” Stark said. Jemma tensed; despite the flippant wording, she could hear the grim note in Stark’s voice and knew that every word was in deadly earnest. “Because he didn’t go from military school to the woods of Wisconsin, not in one straight shot. He was in juvie.”

            Jemma inhaled sharply. Coulson frowned. “That—that should have been in his file,” he said, sounding as if he was talking half to himself. “It wouldn’t have—I mean, it’s not like he’d have been the first agent with red in his ledger.”

            “Juvenile records are usually sealed,” Skye began.

            “Except he was tried as an adult,” Stark said. “Those records shouldn’t have been sealed. They certainly shouldn’t have been buried as much as they were.”

            “What do you mean?” Coulson asked, his frown deepening.

            “I had to _really_ dig to find this out. Like, I’m pretty sure the reason a S.H.I.E.L.D. background check didn’t ferret out this information is because whoever was doing the check was HYDRA, but it was so deeply buried that most other background checks wouldn’t have even come up with anything to explain those missing ten months. Which, by the way, there _is_ a six-month period I can’t find anything about, where he went completely off the grid. But the four months before that, yeah, he was in prison. Juvie, only because of his age—he was fifteen—but still prison.”

            “How did you know?” May asked.

            Stark sighed. “I’m a suspicious bastard. Thought I’d see if there was anything true in his file. And I found something that, well, wasn’t in his file and probably should have been—which turned out to be what he went to jail for, by the way, although that took a hell of a lot more investigation to find out.”

            “What _did_ he go to prison for?” Jemma asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer. But she had to ask.

            “Grand theft auto,” Stark said. Jemma was about to say that that didn’t sound so bad when he added, “Arson. Attempted murder.”

            “ _What?_ ” May and Trip said in unison. Jemma swayed; Skye reached over to steady her, looking white as a sheet.

            “What the hell did he _do?_ ” Coulson demanded. “Steal a car and burn a house down with someone inside it?”

            “Well, yeah, actually,” Stark said slowly. “Apparently, he ran away from the military academy, hot-wired a car, drove back to the town he grew up in, and set fire to his parents’ house.”

            “While his parents were inside it,” Skye murmured, her eyes wide.

            “No, his older brother,” Stark replied. “He _claimed_ in the court transcripts—which were buried like everything else, by the way—that he didn’t know the guy was in there, but judging by what I was able to glean from his file, that’s bullshit, too. He’s the one that pushed for Ward to be tried as an adult.”

            “Wait, wait,” Trip said, frowning. “Something like that—he should’ve gotten twenty-five, _minimum._ So how the hell did he get out within four months?”

            “Jailbreak,” Stark said succinctly. “Again, pretty deeply buried, although I don’t think that was necessarily Garrett’s intervention—the prison probably wouldn’t want to admit that a big pack of heavily-armed men broke into their prison and broke _out_ a violent felon. But, yeah, _someone_ broke him out, and I’m willing to lay money on it having been Garrett.”

            “We’ll have to ask Ward, once he’s able to talk again,” Coulson said. Jemma noticed that his hands were shaking, just a little bit. “Obviously we can’t ask Garrett, not that he would have told us.”

            “He’s dead, then?” Stark asked.

            “Yep.”

            “Good. Frankly, I’d be a hell of a lot happier if Ward was dead, too, but…” Stark’s voice trailed off.

            Jemma bit her lip. She sort of agreed, but she wasn’t going to say so. May shook her head, her eyes darkening again. “He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death. Not after what he’s done.”

            “Maybe not, but I can’t say I’m thrilled about him having the opportunity to hurt you guys again, either.” Stark cleared his throat. “Anyway…seriously, are you all okay?”

            “No major injuries,” Coulson replied. “A few cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. Fitz was the worst off. Obviously.”

            “Not exactly what I meant, Phil,” Stark said softly.

            Coulson paused, looking up at the other four. Jemma wasn’t quite sure what Stark _did_ mean. At last, Coulson said, “We’re all right. Especially now that we know Fitz is going to be okay—we’ve been worried about him. It’s just been…a little crazy.” He hesitated, then added, “We’re trying to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D. from the ground up.”

            “Hell of a project,” Stark said, his voice even.

            “Yeah,” Coulson agreed. He glanced up at the team again, his eyebrows lifted slightly, obviously asking a question. And, to Jemma’s surprise, she knew exactly what he was asking.

            There was no doubt in her mind as to the answer. She nodded.

            Coulson smiled slightly, then said into the device in Jemma’s hand, “You know, the original S.H.I.E.L.D. had a Stark on the founding team.”

            There was a noticeable silence. “You’ll notice that didn’t end particularly well.”

            “Lasted seventy years. And it wasn’t your father’s fault that HYDRA snuck in.” Coulson paused. “Necessarily.”

            Jemma’s eyebrows shot up, but when Stark replied, she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m a little older and a little more cynical than he was seventy years ago, if it comes down to that.”

            “So?” Coulson prompted.

            “Phil,” Stark said, his voice absolutely sincere, “you need anything, you ask. Whatever resources I have are at your disposal.”

            Jemma smiled, both relieved and thrilled. If Stark really would be helping them to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D., that meant they would be going back to his house sooner rather than later. Which meant she would get to see Fitz again, which honestly was rapidly becoming all she cared about at this point. Seeing him and making sure he recovered.

            “Give us a day or two. We’ll be by,” Coulson responded.

            “Good. I know someone who’ll be glad to see you.” Stark paused. “Make that two somebodies. Hang on.” There was some muffled noise, and then Stark’s voice came back on. “Someone here wants to talk to you.”

            Jemma’s smile widened—that she _definitely_ understood. She handed the device over to Coulson, who smiled in reply and pressed the red button on the side, then held it up to his ear. A moment later, his expression softened. “Hey. How are you?”

            May touched Jemma’s shoulder, nudging her back towards the table. Jemma deliberately tuned out the conversation as she returned to her now-cold meal with considerably more appetite than previously.

* * *

            Clint sat on the edge of the roof, nursing his first cup of coffee of the day and watching the sky gradually lighten. Now that Fitz was awake and starting to recover, at least a little, he and Tony didn’t feel so bad about leaving him long enough to sleep or eat. J.A.R.V.I.S. would alert them if there was a problem, they knew—well, he would have from the beginning, but it was still hard for either of them to leave the kid’s bedside. Tony more than Clint, but Clint was saving that particular bit of teasing for a more opportune time.

            It was still fairly early. The sun hadn’t yet begun to peek up above the horizon. But the sky was already suffused with a dark reddish-orange tint, more akin to late sunset than typical sunrise, and Clint’s eye could pick out the tell-tale clouds scudding across the horizon just above the treetops.

            “‘Red sky at morning…’” he murmured.

            “Sounds like the announcement for a sporting event,” said a voice from behind him. “‘Red Sky at Morning, seven P.M. Eastern, only on ESPN-2.’”

            Clint grinned, although he didn’t turn around. “Morning, Tony.”

            Tony joined Clint, also looking up at the sky. “Pretty,” he said. “Were you quoting something there?”

            “Old proverb,” Clint replied. “‘Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.’ It’s gonna storm before the day’s out.”

            “Old wives’ tale,” Tony said dismissively.

            Clint turned to look at him. “No, it’s true. Phil explained it to me once. It’s got to do with the haze in the atmosphere and the way the wind and air currents work.”

            Tony shrugged in wordless apology. “I don’t suppose you can estimate how long it’ll be before it hits?”

            “I’m an archer, not a meteorologist.”

            “Okay, _Bones._ Jeez.” But Tony was smiling as he took a sip from his coffee cup. “Windows are pretty thick, so we shouldn’t need to put up storm shutters or anything. As long as we’re not on the roof when it gets here, we’ll be fine.”

            “It’s not gonna hit _that_ abruptly,” Clint pointed out.

            Tony laughed. The smile faded, however, as he turned away from the woods to scan the drive. “You think they’ll come today?”

            Clint didn’t answer. It had been a little less than a day and a half since Fitz had woken up, since Tony had called Simmons, and since Clint had been able to talk to Phil. They’d only had a few moments, not nearly enough to get caught up on, and they’d been hampered by the fact that they were trying to have a private conversation—which meant speaking in another language. The trouble was that the only language _both_ of them were completely fluent in was English, so they had only been able to stumble through a short conversation in Russian (Clint was grateful Natasha wasn’t there to make fun of his accent, which he _knew_ was horrible, thank you very much and quit laughing) before, regretfully, saying goodbye. And that brief talk hadn’t sated Clint’s longing for his lover—it had only whetted it.

            He missed Phil. A lot.

            “Nothing’s predictable when S.H.I.E.L.D. is involved,” he said at last. “Especially not now. And Phil…he’s always been an outlier, you know? He’ll do what he’s told but he’s not afraid to…reinterpret things to suit. But with them rebuilding the organization…I don’t know, Tony. I just don’t know.”

            “You couldn’t have said that in the first place?” Tony’s lips quirked in a smile again.

            Clint smiled a little in reply. “I’m developing the tendency to babble. Must be from spending so much time with you.”

            “Ouch!” Tony put a hand over his heart. “You _wound_ me, sir.”

            Clint laughed. The laughter died on his lips, however, as he spotted a distant object at the foot of the driveway, rapidly approaching.

            “What is it?” Tony asked, instantly on the alert.

            Clint moved closer, wishing it was a little later, wishing the sun was up. He could see pretty well, but whatever the object was, it kept getting lost in the shadows. “Someone’s coming,” he said. “Up the drive. Fair-sized—not a car, but it’s not a Hummer, either. Somewhere in between—an SUV, maybe.”

            “Want me to go get your bow?” Tony asked.

            “No…wait…” Clint murmured. He narrowed his eyes slightly, focusing his vision. Suddenly a grin split his face as he recognized the vehicle coming towards them. “It’s B.E.C.K.A.”

            “You’re sure?” Tony said, a grin lighting up his own expression.

            Clint turned to him. “I don’t doubt your brain. Don’t doubt my eyes.”

            Tony held up his hands. “All right, all right! Come on, let’s get down there and meet them.”

            Clint had to stop himself from rushing headlong down the steps. He didn’t want to wake Fitz if the kid was still sleeping. Still, he stayed ahead of Tony the entire way from the roof down to the main floor. Phil had assured him that he was fine, but Clint knew him well enough to know that there was something he wasn’t telling Clint. It might not have been deliberate obfuscation of the facts—it might have just been because of the limits of their Russian—but it had been worrying at Clint all the same. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied everything was fine until he actually had Phil in his arms.

            The door to the garage swung open as they hit the main floor, and Clint distinctly heard the sounds of car doors slamming. A moment later, Trip came in, holding two flat white boxes. “You guys aren’t on diets, are you?”

            “If we were, we’re not now,” Tony told him, raising an eyebrow. “Come on in.”

            Trip complied. Clint noticed that he had no visible cuts or bruises. Skye, right behind him, also seemed to have come through the battle unscathed. May hadn’t fared quite so well—she had a couple of bruises that were obviously still healing—but overall she looked all right.

            A moment later, Phil and Simmons came in. The minor abrasions Simmons had had five days previously were mostly healed, although there was still a bit of pinkness about one or two of the worst ones. But it was Phil who drew Clint’s attention. He had a cut on his forehead that had been taped shut; while it was healing cleanly—even from a distance that was obvious—it would definitely leave a scar when all was said and done.

            Other than that, he looked unharmed. He caught Clint’s eye and smiled. Clint smiled back, but made himself stay calm.

            “How’s—” Simmons began.

            “Go on,” Tony said with a smile, jerking his head at the stairs. “You know where his room is. He’ll want to see you when he wakes up.”

            Simmons gave him a grateful smile, then practically ran up the stairs. Tony watched her go, then turned back to the others. “Come on. Coffee’s on.”

            Clint stayed where he was as the others walked past, his eyes locked on Phil. Phil, too, stayed put. The instant they were alone, however, Clint started for Phil at the same time Phil moved towards him. A moment later they were in one another’s arms, holding each other tightly. Clint buried his face in Phil’s shoulder, fighting back the tears, relieved more than words could ever express.

            Finally, he pulled back slightly and looked up at Phil, cupping his jaw with one hand. “You okay?” he asked hoarsely.

            Phil nodded, smiling in that way he had that crinkled up his eyes. “Garrett got in a lucky hit or two, but I was never in any real danger.”

            “I was worried,” Clint confessed, rubbing his thumb over Phil’s cheek. “I know you said you were fine when we talked the other day, but…”

            “But until you saw me, you couldn’t let yourself believe it,” Phil completed. “I know. Been there, done that.” He leaned forward and captured Clint’s lips with his own in a soft kiss. “How many times did you call me and say not to worry and I was still waiting for your plane when you got in?”

            Clint smiled. “As near as I can remember, every time.”

            Phil smiled back. “Or at least, as often as I could.”

            Clint leaned against Phil, taking comfort in his lover’s strong heartbeat and steady pulse. “I could tell, you know,” he said quietly. “That there was something you weren’t telling me. I don’t know if it’s just that you didn’t have the Russian to tell me or if it was something else, but…”

            Phil hesitated. “There—yeah, there are a couple of things I didn’t tell you,” he admitted. “It’s only partly the whole language thing. Part of it…it’s not that I don’t trust you, Clint. It’s just that only a few people are supposed to know.”

            “I understand,” Clint said. He didn’t like it, but he understood. Phil’s clearance with S.H.I.E.L.D. was two levels above Clint’s to begin with, and then he’d been one of no more than a handful of people that Nick Fury trusted completely. There were always things that Phil wasn’t allowed to tell Clint. Like what Project T.A.H.I.T.I. had involved, or that he’d been brought back to life after the Battle of Manhattan. If it was personal, they didn’t keep secrets from each other, but if it was professional, they sometimes had to keep silent, even if it almost killed them both sometimes.

            “You’re not gonna ask?” Phil made a pathetic attempt at a smile.

            “I know better. If I was cleared to know, you’d have told me.”

            Phil sighed, and he looked frustrated—even more than he usually did when he had to keep something from Clint. “It’s just…it’s not my secret.”

            Clint remembered the figure he’d seen in the doorway of the helicopter. He realized that the man had indubitably gone to help Phil and his team battle the HYDRA agents—after all, he’d been taking Simmons to rejoin them—and suddenly guessed what part of the problem was. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, but as an added precaution, he dropped his voice and spoke in extremely shaky (and probably incorrect) French. “ _Est-ce que faire de—la colère?_ ”

            Phil frowned for a moment. “Bann—” he began, then stopped, his eyes widening and lips parting slightly as he suddenly understood exactly what Clint was asking. In much better-accented French, he asked, _“Tu sais la vérité sur lui?”_

            _“Je lui ai vue,_ ” Clint confirmed. He struggled for the French words to explain when, but fortunately, he didn’t have to. Phil simply nodded.

            “If you already know…yeah, that’s what I wasn’t telling you. Or, anyway, that was the big thing. It—it kind of led to all the other stuff…”

            “Phil.” Clint felt amusement bubbling up. “I listen to this kind of babbling from Tony all the time. Just spit it out. What did F—” He caught himself. Better not to say more than necessary. Even though the rest of Phil’s team probably knew, Tony didn’t. “What happened?”

            Phil drew Clint closer, pressing their foreheads together. He spoke as quietly as he could, so that someone would have to come breathe down their necks in order to hear. “I yelled at him. About T.A.H.I.T.I. That project…I’d resigned, recommended he cancel it completely. Test subjects were losing their minds, Clint.”

            Clint felt a chill run down his spine. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Phil. “Did he? Cancel it, I mean?”

            Phil looked into Clint’s eyes. “That’s right,” he murmured. “I didn’t tell you. Project T.A.H.I.T.I. is…it’s what they used to bring me back. Remember, I told you it was a side project to the Avengers Initiative—an insurance policy? It was—it was supposed to be in case of the death of an Avenger. I reminded him of that.”

            “What did he say to that?” Clint asked, his mind only half on the conversation. He was remembering Tony crashing to Earth, his suit cracked, Rogers ripping off the face shield, seeing Tony’s face…none of them had said so at the time, but all of them realized that Tony had actually been dead, if only for a minute or two before the Hulk’s roar had, apparently, jump-started his arc reactor again.

            “He said ‘Exactly,’” Phil said softly.

            Clint pulled back slightly to look in Phil’s eyes. The man still looked a little dazed by that statement. Slowly, a grin curled the corners of Clint’s mouth. “You didn’t think we could have done it without you, did you?” he said, moving forward to kiss Phil again.

            “Yeah, well…” Phil smiled. “That wasn’t the end of the conversation. He—he gave me a box. Little black one, maybe two inches on each side. Called it a toolbox, said I could use it to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            “He’s got you heading up the rebuild?”

            Phil swallowed, the smile disappearing to be replaced by that look of amazement again. It was the look he wore every time Clint said _I love you—_ like he’d been given an award he didn’t quite think he deserved. “He’s got me heading up _everything,_ Clint.”

            It took Clint a second to realize what Phil was saying. Shocked, he took a step back, his eyes widening, staring at his lover. “You—he—you’re in charge?”

            “Yeah,” Phil said softly. “He told me to—take my time, to do it right. It’s not gonna be done in a few months. Might not even be done in a year. And I’m starting with a team of six.”

            “Seven,” Clint corrected him.

            “Who’s the seventh?” Phil asked, frowning.

            Clint counted off on his fingers. “May, Trip, Skye, Simmons, Fitz, Tony, and me. That’s seven. Eight counting you.”

            “Clint…you know you don’t have to…”

            “The hell I don’t,” Clint interrupted. “Phil, please. I’ve felt so damned…helpless these last few days. I’m not good for much, but I’m a damned good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, you’ve always said so. Let me help.”

            Phil hesitated, then smiled. “Okay. Still only a team of seven, though. I wasn’t counting Fitz. I—I don’t think he’s gonna be up for much, not for a while. I could hear when we talked just how weak he really was.”

            Clint nodded, sobered. “He’s a sick boy. Understandable, when you reflect on the fact that he nearly drowned, but…”

            “Yeah, Simmons gave us the run-down. Part of me wants to take him back with us when we go, but until I go up and see him, I don’t even know if he can be moved.”

            “I would say not. I know Tony, at least, would prefer he stays here at least until his arm heals. He’s gotten really protective of that kid. I don’t think he slept more than two hours _total_ between the time Fitz got here and the time he woke up.”

            Phil softened. “That…that makes me feel a lot better about having left him here. Dammit, I should have left him here in the first place, I should never have—”

            “Shh.” Clint pressed a gentle finger to Phil’s lips. “He made his choice, Phil. If you’d made him stay behind, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. And Simmons would probably have died, and he _definitely_ wouldn’t have been able to handle that. You’d have lost them both and—” He broke off abruptly as Phil opened his mouth and took Clint’s finger into it.

            He should have known better, really. Phil had something of an oral fixation. It had always distracted Clint a little bit, looking up from whatever he was working on at their kitchen table to see Phil sucking on the end of the stylus for his old Palm Pilot or tapping the eraser of a pencil against his teeth or biting gently on the tip of his thumb. And the things he could do with his mouth in bed were sinful. He’d learned to control it in public, but in private, or when he was exceptionally stressed, he let himself go a little. As a result, Clint tended not to put his fingers anywhere near Phil’s mouth unless he was prepared to accept the consequences. It had just been so long that he’d forgotten. Phil’s tongue slid along the callused pad of Clint’s fingertips. He sucked lightly, and Clint’s brain short-circuited.

            It was hard to tell where things would have gone from there, but a loud burst of laughter from the direction of the kitchen startled both of them. Phil accidentally—at least, Clint _assumed_ it was an accident—bit down on the digit in his mouth before quickly taking Clint’s hand and pulling it free. He was blushing slightly, which Clint would normally have thought was cute and taken advantage of, but he was hampered by the fact that he was blushing, too.

            “You’re spending the night, right?” Clint said, trying to keep his voice light.

            Phil laughed, but in his eyes, Clint could see the same desperation and desire that he himself felt. “Yeah. I’ve still gotta figure out how we’re getting back, since we drove in B.E.C.K.A. instead of bringing the Bus, but…if Tony’s okay with it, we’ll be staying.”

            Clint jerked the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder as another burst of laughter came from the kitchen. “You really think he’s gonna mind?”

            “Maybe we should get in there before he teaches Skye too many bad habits,” Phil said with the smirk Clint found so endearing.

            “Maybe we should get in there before they eat all the doughnuts,” Clint countered. Phil chuckled and slipped his arm around Clint’s waist.

            Everything seemed more at ease than the last time they’d sat in Tony’s kitchen. May wasn’t standing in the doorway with her arms folded and her body tensed for action; Trip wasn’t poised to spring at a moment’s notice; Skye looked as though she’d gotten a good night’s sleep or two. Tony was in his element, grinning ear to ear as he related a story.

            “—proceeded to grab him and throw him around like a rag doll,” he was saying. “Ended by slamming the God of Mischief about six inches into the floor, then sneered at him and said—”

            “‘ Puny god,’” Clint supplied, doing his best Hulk impression.

            Trip and Skye both lost it. May shook her head, grinning. “Wish you’d gotten a video of that.”

            “I’d have traded you for a video of you kicking the shit out of Ward,” Tony said. He was still grinning, but Clint saw the seriousness in his eyes.

            “Next time I decide to work off some frustration, I’ll call you first,” May offered.

            “I appreciate that.” Tony turned his grin on Phil. “So, from what these three were telling me, I understand I’m supposed to call you ‘Director’ now?”

            “No,” Phil corrected him. “You’re still supposed to call me ‘Phil.’”

            “Nevertheless, congratulations. Not that it’s a surprise. If I’d been picking someone to take over from Fury, I’d have picked you. And I know Fury would have picked you if he’d been able to hand over things normally.”

            Phil’s eyebrows lifted fractionally. Clint guessed that, even if the other three members of the team knew Fury was alive, they hadn’t told Tony, which was a good thing. “What makes you so sure of that?”

            Tony set aside his coffee cup. It wasn’t the Iron Man one he usually used, Clint noticed—it was the clear glass one with “#1 ASSHOLE” etched onto its surface—which was when Clint realized that they’d both left their first cups on the roof. He let go of Phil and moved over to get coffee for both of them as Tony explained, “When Fury was telling us what happened to you—sort of lecturing us for arguing with each other instead of working as a team, which, let’s face it, we deserved—he wasn’t just talking about how you believed in us, believed in the ideals we were supposed to be fighting for. The part of the speech that always stuck in my head…he said he’d lost his ‘one good eye.’”

            A slow smile crept over May’s face as she looked up at Phil. Skye, too, was grinning ear to ear. Phil, for his part, had the same expression that he’d worn when telling Clint what Fury had said about him being an Avenger. Clint knew just how humble a person Phil Coulson really was; he genuinely didn’t think he was anything special, just another cog in the machine that was S.H.I.E.L.D. No matter how often Clint told him just how amazing he was, he never seemed to believe it.

            And now everyone knew the truth. Including Phil himself, even if he still couldn’t seem to believe it. Phil didn’t need special powers or skills to be a hero. He was a brave man, and a good one. There wasn’t anyone better to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.—and do it right. Clint wished it hadn’t taken the virtual destruction of everything they once knew and held dear for them to see it, but at least people knew, at least they understood now.

            _Now why am I thinking about Captain America?_ Clint mused to himself as he rejoined Phil, handing him the coffee cup. “Seems like an apt description to me,” he said with an affectionate smile. “But then, I always knew that.”

            Phil accepted the coffee. “What? That Fury thought so highly of me?” He spoke nonchalantly, but there was a faint flush to his cheeks.

            “No. That you were worth thinking highly of.” Clint kissed Phil’s cheek.

            “Hear, hear.” Trip raised his coffee cup in a salute, grinning. Phil blushed a brighter shade of red.

            “Seriously,” Skye said. She was grinning, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. “Did you think we followed you just because we had to? If anyone else had offered to let me join S.H.I.E.L.D., I wouldn’t have done it. And you’re totally the right person to head it up.”

            If Phil’s face got any brighter red, Clint could probably toast marshmallows on it. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Seriously. That—that means a lot to me.”

            Tony handed him a doughnut. “Come on, take a load off, both of you. Your turn to tell a story.”

* * *

            It didn’t take long for Phil to realize that he probably should have gone down to Tony’s Malibu house sooner. Not just because Tony Stark had access to resources that even Skye’s amazing hacking abilities couldn’t rival, not just because he had his father’s original blueprints coupled with a post-Cold War perspective. But they’d all been tense since destroying Garrett and capturing Ward. Being here was enabling all of them to relax.

            Tony offered to take them on a tour of the house once they’d polished off the doughnuts. Phil had elected to join them, partly to make sure Tony and Skye didn’t decide to, say, hack into the Pentagon’s mainframe and update the Terror Alert status to Pink Polka Dots, and partly to see what changes Tony had made—after all, this particular house had already been destroyed twice, once by Tony himself and once by the Mandarin. He wasn’t really surprised that there weren’t too many changes, but he’d definitely been impressed by the gym.

            They’d ended up watching May give Skye a sparring lesson. She’d taken over as Skye’s S.O., and she was doing a lot better than Ward had ever done. Phil still felt guilty about how that had turned out. He’d trusted Ward, damn it, he’d respected him, he’d actually started to _like_ him. Despite what Fury—what _everyone_ —had said in the last couple of days…what did that say about his judgment?

            “Stop it,” Clint whispered in his ear.

            Phil started. “Stop what?” he whispered back without taking his eyes off the sparring.

            “You’re overthinking again. Stop it. What happened with Ward isn’t your fault. The guy was a good actor. You couldn’t have known.”

            Phil smiled slightly, sliding his eyes over to look at his lover. “Reading minds again?”

            Clint smiled back. “You know I’ve never had any trouble reading yours.” He leaned over and kissed Phil’s cheek.

            Phil felt warmth fill him. The truth was that he needed this, too. He needed some time to not think about S.H.I.E.L.D. or HYDRA or Ward. He needed time for himself—and Clint. Frankly, they deserved it. He resolved then and there not to leave until he had taken that time.

            “Ouch,” Clint said, wincing, as Skye landed a lucky blow and knocked May awkwardly to the mat. “That’s gonna leave a mark…”

            “On May, or on the mat?” Phil asked as May did a fast sweep with her legs, catching Skye’s shins and knocking her down, too.

            “Both.”

            Phil chuckled quietly. “Honestly, couldn’t have picked anyone better to train Skye. She’s the only person in S.H.I.E.L.D. with more black belts than Nat.”

            Clint chuckled, too. “Now there’s a sparring match I’d love to see.”

            “Nat’s good, but Melinda would turn her inside out.”

            “And she’d love every minute of it. You know she doesn’t get to go up against people who give her a challenge very often.”

            Less than two seconds later, May had Skye pinned to the mat. She grinned, offering the younger woman a hand up, which Skye accepted, also grinning. Tony clapped. “Impressive. Really impressive.”

            “Care for a bout?” May offered, smirking at him.

            “Uh, no. I like my face arranged the way it is, thanks.”

            “You have my word that I won’t touch it.”

            “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Tony smiled. “I’m not very confident about my fighting abilities without my suit.”

            Skye raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that give you a little bit of an unfair advantage?”

            “You bet your ass it does,” Tony said seriously. “And let’s face it, a guy like me needs all the advantages he can get.”

            “How about you, Barton?” May asked, turning to look at Clint.

            “Not only no, but _hell_ no,” Clint said promptly. “I don’t do close combat if I can help it.”

            May raised an eyebrow. Her expression was eerily similar to Skye’s, and Phil suddenly doubted the wisdom of letting her train the younger agent. “And if you can’t help it?”

            Clint’s hand went involuntarily to his side. “It…doesn’t usually end well.”

            Phil swallowed, knowing exactly what Clint was referring to. About five years back, Clint had been perched on a building, providing cover fire for Natasha as she ran what should have been a routine mission. Except that the people they were up against had been tipped off, they’d never known by whom, and had found out that Strike Team Delta was involved. Anyone who knew anything about Strike Team Delta knew to look for a sniper…and they’d found Clint.

            It hadn’t been the first time Clint had been seriously hurt on a mission, and Phil was realistic enough to know it wouldn’t be the last, either. But it had scared Phil nonetheless. He’d had the fortune to be directly involved with that particular mission, able to investigate immediately when Natasha texted him with one of their prearranged codes, indicating that covering fire had stopped. He’d found Clint critically injured, his bow snapped in two, bleeding badly from his side and barely breathing. The people who’d caught him were preparing for the killing blow when Phil stepped in and…

            There hadn’t been anything left for Natasha to do when she finally joined them except call for a medical team to be on standby when they got back to the rendezvous.

            They never talked about it again, any of them. But Phil had spent the next four days sitting at Clint’s bedside, holding his hand and talking to him. And it had left him with a scar that he’d carry for the rest of his life.

            _Speaking of lifelong scars…_ Phil knew he needed to go see Fitz at some point. Just like Clint hadn’t been able to relax until he knew Phil was safe, so Phil wouldn’t be able to completely relax until he saw the young agent with his own eyes. Fitz was alive, he was on the road to recovery, but Phil needed to actually look at him and talk to him before he could assess how long that recovery would take.

            “Hey, I’m up for a spar if you’re still in the mood,” Trip offered.

            “You’re on.” May smiled.

            Skye hopped out of the ring and Trip climbed in, facing May. As the two began circling each other, Clint squeezed Phil’s hand lightly. “Third floor, turn right at the top of the stairs, first door on the left,” he murmured.

            Phil started and looked at Clint. “I’m sorry?”

            “That’s where we put Fitz—it’s closer to our rooms, so we could keep an ear out for him. Go on, things’ll be fine down here for a while.”

            “Am I really that obvious?”

            “To me, always.” Clint turned to him and smiled. “Seriously, Phil. Go see him.”

            Phil leaned over and kissed Clint’s cheek. “Try to make sure I have the same number of team members as I started with when I get back.”

            “I’ll do my best,” Clint promised.

            Everyone’s eyes were on the sparring match; none of them noticed Phil leave the room. Tony had put in an elevator when he’d rebuilt the house the last time, but Phil ignored them, taking the stairs instead. It gave him a little bit longer to compose his thoughts and figure out exactly what he was going to say.

            He didn’t blame Fitz for what had happened. If anything, he blamed himself. He never should have sent the two of them alone—he should have sent Trip or May with them. But in the end, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Garrett’s…and Ward’s. And there was no doubt that it was Fitz’s swift actions that had saved his and Simmons’ lives, that had enabled them to track the Bus and eventually enabled Fury to track them. Fitz was a hero, in the truest sense of the word, and Phil hadn’t been lying when he’d told the young man that he was proud of him.

            The question was whether or not Fitz would believe him.

            Phil reached the third floor, turned right. The first door on the left was ajar slightly, and he could hear the soft murmur of Simmons’ voice. He didn’t want to just barge in, so he paused and knocked gently before pushing the door open the rest of the way.

            It wasn’t a regulation hospital room, but it was about on par with the recovery rooms Phil had seen in a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. outposts in terms of technology. In terms of comfort, it was standard for one of Tony’s houses. Fitz lay in the center of a double bed, a blanket tucked up to his chest. A tube snaked from his left arm to a drip stand, dispensing a clear fluid that Phil guessed was either saline or the standard mix of S.H.I.E.L.D. nutrients and liquids. His right arm lay across his chest, bound up in a heavy off-white cast. His face was a little ashen, a little sunken in, but whatever cuts and bruises he’d had had mostly healed, which was good. Simmons sat next to him, her face alight. His eyes were fixed on her, but when they heard the door open, both of them turned to look.

            “Sorry to interrupt,” Phil said softly, and he really did hate disturbing them. “I just came to check on you.”

            “Hello, sir,” Fitz said. His voice wasn’t as raspy as it had been the day before, but you could definitely tell that he’d been through hell.

            Phil hesitated. He didn’t want to separate them, but at the same time…“Simmons, have you had anything to eat today?”

            Simmons flushed. “No, sir.”

            “Jemma,” Fitz said weakly.

            “Go,” Phil told her, gently but firmly. “Have a doughnut or two. The others are down in the gym.”

            “Yes, sir.” Simmons looked at Fitz, her expression softening. “I’ll be back.”

            Fitz managed a smile. She brushed his cheek lightly with her fingers, then stood up and left the room.

            Phil came closer and took the seat next to him. He studied Fitz silently for a moment before speaking. “How’re you feeling?”

            “Better,” Fitz replied. “Not great. But better.”

            “That’s good to hear. I’ve been worried about you.” Phil swallowed. “I’m sorry, Fitz. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

            “Not your fault,” Fitz said. “I…I’m sorry. I know I made mistakes…”

            Phil felt a lump in his throat. “I told you, Fitz, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

            “I let Jemma get caught,” Fitz whispered. “I trusted Ward…”

            “Stop,” Phil ordered, reaching over and putting his hand over Fitz’s uninjured one. “You’re hardly the first S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to get captured during a mission—even one that should have been routine. It _happens._ ” Again he thought of Clint. “And you didn’t exactly _trust_ Ward, or you would have opened that door when he told you to.”

            “But I believed in him.” Fitz’s eyes filled with tears. “I really thought…he wouldn’t hurt us…”

            “I know.” And technically, Phil thought, Fitz had been right. Ward hadn’t actually _hurt_ them directly—he’d just dropped them out of the Bus, in something that _technically_ should have floated. Whether Ward had realized that, and was trying to give them a chance, or not, Phil wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. “But you saved Simmons. You saved the rest of us, too—if you hadn’t bugged the Bus, we never would have found it, and F—and the team that found you wouldn’t have been able to find _us._ You’re a hero.”

            Fitz was silent for a minute. Finally, he said in a mere thread of a voice, “That’s…that’s what Stark said. I didn’t believe him.”

            “You should. Tony might joke around a lot, he might be flippant and sarcastic a lot of the time, but he doesn’t lie. Especially not about stuff like this.” Phil smiled. Fitz smiled tentatively back. “Now, I know you’ve probably been over it a lot, but…why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

            Fitz spoke in a slightly hesitant manner—not, Phil realized, because he wasn’t sure of his recollections but because he was still getting his energy back—but his story tallied with what Simmons had told them. Phil gave thanks that there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his memory. His brain appeared to have escaped major damage.

            “Sir?” Fitz said quietly when he finished.

            “Yeah, Fitz?”

            “I haven’t said anything to anyone else…not even Jemma…but I think you should know. I can’t move my legs, sir.”

            Phil fought back the surge of panic he could feel rising in his chest. “You can feel them, though, right?”

            “Yeah…at least, I think so,” Fitz said slowly. “They kind of…tingle. A little. But when I try to move them…” He bit his lip. Phil realized the young man was trying to move them, was probably putting all of his concentration into it, but he could clearly see the outline of his legs under the sheets and they didn’t so much as twitch.

            “That’s—that’s something you probably should have mentioned sooner, Fitz,” he said, struggling to sound calm.

            “I thought it was just my imagination,” Fitz confessed.

            Phil bit his lip. Simmons was the only one of them who was really trained in anything resembling medicine, but he had a feeling that telling her what was going on would only cause her to panic. And Tony really didn’t have the supplies to treat…whatever was going on properly. Unless he’d started yet another sideline that Phil wasn’t aware of, which, frankly, wouldn’t surprise him at this point.

            “You’re still recovering,” he said at last. “As long as you can still feel them, I’m sure you’re okay—you’ll be able to move them soon. But if it lasts—tell someone, okay? Tony or Clint. They’ll look after you.”

            “They’ve been very good to me, sir,” Fitz said softly. “I’m grateful to—to whoever brought me here.”

            Phil remembered that Fitz had been completely unconscious when he’d been brought in. He’d cautioned Simmons not to say anything about Fury, and she evidently hadn’t; Fitz had no idea that the man was still alive, let alone that he’d been the one to bring Fitz to Tony. “From what I understand, it was Simmons’ idea. She knew you’d be safe here.”

            “I wish I…could have stayed,” Fitz said. “Helped…”

            “You did your part, Fitz,” Phil assured him. “We won, thanks to you. You just focus on getting better.”

            Fitz nodded slowly. “Sir…Simmons wouldn’t tell me. What…what happened to Garrett? And Ward?”

            “Garrett’s dead, and Ward’s in custody. Remember, we told you that when you called the other day.”

            “Yes, but…I mean specifically. What happened?”

            Phil hesitated. Fitz had a vulnerable look about him. He’d always seemed like the youngest member of the party, even though he technically had two years on Skye, but she’d been toughened by the life she’d led.  Fitz had spent most of his life in schools and laboratories. Phil didn’t know how much Fitz could actually handle.

            Then again, with everything he’d been through, it didn’t seem fair not to tell him.

            “Garrett…well, you know he was the original Deathlok project,” Phil began slowly. “When you shorted out his electronics…he was dying. We managed to get from one of the agents…Reyna had synthesized an approximation of GH 325, and she injected him with it. It…definitely took him to new levels of crazy. He was trying to take us out…trying to get Mike Peterson to take us out. Skye found his son and sent him a message…he turned on Garrett. He was the one to…take him down.” He hesitated again, then added, “Well, he wasn’t _quite_ as dead as we thought. He tried to get up and use the technology Quinn had developed to give him cybernetic limbs…I happened to come in at the same time and found a weapon we’d been looking for. So…now he’s dead.”

            Fitz actually smiled. “I knew you…wouldn’t let him get away.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, then opened them. “Ward?”

            _And I knew you wouldn’t let me get out of telling you about him,_ Phil thought, a little dismally. “Ward was…well, it’s a long story, but Skye baited him until May showed up and took him by surprise. She…basically beat him into submission.” He hoped that would be enough.

            It wasn’t. “Was he…badly hurt?”

            “Yeah,” Phil admitted. “Apart from the usual kind of injuries people get when they go up against Melinda May…they were in a construction zone, and you know she uses whatever she has on hand. I think there was a piece of rebar that came into play at some point. And…she nailed his foot to the floor, then kicked his throat. Fractured his larynx—he’s still recovering from that. But like I said, he’s alive.”

            Fitz swallowed hard, and Phil wasn’t surprised to see tears in his eyes. “He…he can’t have…he really _did_ care about us.” He looked up at Phil with a pleading expression. “Didn’t he?”

            Phil’s heart broke at the pathetic, hopeful tone to Fitz’s voice. “I don’t know, Fitz. I really don’t know. He might have.” He rubbed the back of the young man’s hand. “But don’t forget…he was willing to kill you because Garrett told him to. I don’t know if he’s actually evil or not. But we’ll never be able to trust him again.”

            Fitz looked away. “I keep thinking about…Ossetia. The Overkill device…”

            “Fitz,” Phil murmured, remembering the incident well. He’d been furious with Hand when he’d found out that she’d deliberately lied to them—all of them—about the nature of the mission, and the extraction plan. The fact that he now realized it had meant trusting Fitz’s safety _entirely_ to a man who’d been working against them the whole time made the bile rise in his throat.

            “Ward saved my life,” Fitz continued. “He…he looked out for me. If he…if he was really evil…he could have let me die. But he didn’t…”

            “Fitz,” Phil said again. “Don’t do this to yourself. Whatever Ward may have done, whatever he might have been before…he’s made it clear where his loyalties lie. And it isn’t with us. It was never with us.” He squeezed the young man’s hand tightly. “Please. He’s already hurt you badly enough. I—I can’t let him hurt you again.”

            Fitz’s fingers slowly shifted until he was squeezing Phil’s fingers lightly. “You didn’t…it’s not your fault, sir,” he whispered. “You…you didn’t _let_ him…do anything.”

            Phil didn’t say anything. It wasn’t true. He’d trusted Ward—trusted him with not only his own life, which wouldn’t have mattered so much, but with the lives of the other team members. He’d let Ward become important to them—let him make them think he was changing, that he really _cared._ He’d let Ward make them all trust him…no, _depend_ on him.

            He was in charge, dammit. He should have known.

            “Sir.” Fitz’s voice was a mere thread.

            Phil brought himself back to reality. “Yeah, Fitz?”

            Fitz managed a smile. “Thank you. For…for everything.”

            His eyelids fluttered shut, his hand went slack beneath Phil’s. Phil was about to start panicking again when he saw the steady rise and fall of Fitz’s chest and heard his even, gentle breathing. He’d fallen asleep.

            Phil didn’t move for a long moment. He stayed where he was, watching Fitz sleep. He still felt a terrible amount of guilt, not only for having trusted Ward as long as he had, but for letting Fitz and Simmons go looking for the Bus alone. Neither of them had any combat skills to speak of. They’d only barely been cleared for field work. Fitz had shown resourcefulness and bravery, akin to what Ward had reported during Operation Overkill, but that didn’t change the fact that they should never have been put in that situation to begin with. And the end result was that Fitz had nearly died, and as he’d snarled at Ward, he would never be the same.

            It reminded him uncomfortably of when Skye had been shot. Phil was protective of his entire team—even May, who could easily have kicked his ass at a moment’s notice—but he’d always had a soft spot for the youngest two. He’d never felt so helpless in his life as he had when the doctor had told him that Skye’s wounds were fatal…not until Fury had told him what condition he’d left Fitz in. At least with Skye, he’d been able to do _something_ to save her, but once she had, he’d had to let nature take its course, hadn’t been able to do anything but worry about her. And now he was just as helpless. More so, because Skye’s recovery had been rapid. Phil hadn’t needed to do more than walk into the room to realize that Fitz would be out of commission at least until his arm healed, but probably even longer. It would be months before Fitz could even be considered “walking wounded.”

            “Hey,” said a soft voice from behind him.

            Phil started and turned to see Clint watching him in concern. “Hey,” he replied, his voice equally soft. “Everything okay?”

            “I was about to ask you that.”

            Phil looked back at Fitz, unable to conceal the worry in his eyes. “He’s so weak,” he murmured.

            Clint came into the room and put a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “I know, but remember, Phil, he—he was dying, if not technically actually dead, even if just for a matter of minutes. It’s a miracle that he’s even at this level of consciousness. Give him time. He’ll recover.”

            “I know. I do. But…God, Clint, you know how much I hate seeing the people I care about suffer.”

            “You’re a doctor’s worst nightmare. Phil Coulson, the scourge of the hospital waiting room.” Clint was obviously trying to interject a light note into the conversation.

            Phil couldn’t bring himself to smile. “How can they—how can they _not_ blame me for this?”

            “Same reason Nat and I never blamed you when we got hurt,” Clint said simply. “Because we know damn well that it didn’t happen because you _let_ it. It happened in spite of everything you could do to prevent it. And because you were right there to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

            “I wasn’t there when Fitz woke up.”

            “But you got here as fast as you could.”

            “I couldn’t…”

            “Stop,” Clint said softly. “Phil, stop it. You’ve done everything you possibly can—for Fitz, for Skye, for all of them. Skye was telling us what you did when she got shot. You aren’t the one who did all these things. And even if you put all the pieces back together, they’re always going to have cracks showing. That doesn’t mean you didn’t do a good job of fixing it, or that you could have done anything to keep them from getting broken in the first place.”

            “But I should have,” Phil said again. “Damn it, Clint, they were counting on me and I let them down.”

            “How?” Clint demanded. “How did you let them down? How did you, for one goddamned _second,_ fail to be exactly what you were supposed to be—and are?”

            “I was supposed to keep them safe,” Phil said. He knew he sounded pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. He _felt_ pathetic.

            “You can’t,” Clint said bluntly. “Any more than you can ever keep me safe, or Nat, or for that matter yourself. And you _know_ that. But Phil Coulson’s never lost a man yet, and I don’t see that starting any time soon.”

            “I almost did, though,” Phil reminded him.

            “But you didn’t. You did everything you could to pull them through.” Clint came into the room, put his hands on Phil’s shoulders, and knelt in front of him. “Nobody’s perfect, Phil. _Nobody._ You’re exactly what Peggy Carter once called Steve Rogers—‘not a perfect soldier, but a good man.’”

            Phil stared at Clint, his lips slightly parted. He knew the quotation, of course; even as a boy, even before he’d ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d been a _major_ Captain America fan. And then when he’d officially joined, he’d done all the research into Steve Rogers he possibly could. He’d been thrilled when they’d found him preserved beneath the ice, and he’d kind of made a fool of himself when they’d finally had a chance to meet (thank God Rogers had been cool about it). But the more he’d learned, the more he’d changed his perspective. Oh, he still admired Captain America. But the one he _really_ admired, and respected—his _real_ hero—was Captain Steve Rogers of the 107 th, just a kid from Brooklyn who did what was right. Phil could understand why the Howling Commandos had followed him the way they had. He would have followed him, too.

            He could only hope to someday earn anywhere _near_ that kind of respect.

            “I’m not…” he began, then stopped.

            “Not what?” Clint said softly, still looking up at him, his expression serious. “Not a good man? Not a hero?”

            “Not anything like Rogers,” Phil mumbled.

            Clint sighed and stood up, dragging Phil to his feet. “Come here.”

            Phil let his lover tug him along. They ended up on the rooftop. It was midmorning by now, the skies overhead a uniform gunmetal grey but still light enough to see, the wind from the northwest making Phil’s tie dance and ruffling Clint’s hair. There were two coffee cups sitting on the edge of the roof overlooking the drive. Clint led Phil over to the corner of the roof nearest the ocean and sat down, patting the ledge next to him. Phil joined him, but kept his hands on his lap, sure Clint wouldn’t want to touch him, not right now.

            Clint’s eyes were fixed on the ocean. They were the same color, Phil noticed, the waves and those eyes, at least right now. Clint’s eyes were changeable, shifting from blue to green to grey depending on the light and his moods. They had drawn Phil’s attention from the first—his eyes, then his hands, strong and capable, callused from years of archery, but so gentle and tender when they touched Phil. He was beautiful, whether in the tight short-sleeved vests and leather pants he wore on official S.H.I.E.L.D. business or in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, like now.

            “You _are_ like Rogers,” Clint said quietly, without looking away from the sea. “I didn’t follow his orders just because he was Captain America, or because Fury had nominally put him in charge of the Avengers. I followed his orders because, when I listened to him, I heard the man I’ve followed from the day I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. The man who’s gotten me out of a hundred, a thousand, no-win scenarios and impossible situations. The man I’d trust with my life, and the lives of everyone I care about.” He turned at last to fix his eyes on Phil, his expression dead serious. “The man I’ve loved for twenty years.”

            “Clint…”

            “Phil, just listen, okay?” Clint reached over and gripped Phil’s hand tightly. “Fury didn’t choose you to be the new director for no reason. And it wasn’t just because you were handy. He could have asked Hill, Rogers, Nat…hell, he could have asked Carter even. But he didn’t. He picked you. He picked you because he trusts you. Because he believes in you. Because he’s always seen the same thing I have. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.”

            “You keep saying that,” Phil half-whispered, feeling himself start to tear up.

            “It’s true.” Clint slid his arms around Phil, pulled him close, and kissed him.

            It was extremely dangerous, sitting on the edge of the roof like this and kissing, not paying attention to anything around them. But Phil didn’t care. He just closed his eyes and let himself get lost in Clint’s kiss, melting into his embrace and ignoring the tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

            And then he broke the kiss, but he was still crying, and he buried his face in Clint’s shoulder and clung to him tightly and let himself go, sobbing for the first time since everything had gone to hell. He cried for the dead, for the friends he’d lost, for the misguided kids who’d gone over to HYDRA thinking it was the right choice. He cried for Fitz, for Fury, for Simmons and Skye and May and Trip. He cried for Rogers and Natasha, who’d been on the front lines, and for Clint and Tony, who’d been on the periphery, helpless to do anything but watch. He cried for everything he’d lost in the last two weeks and everything he still stood to gain. He cried for himself, for the man he’d been and the man he was slowly becoming.

            And Clint held him.

            At last he cried himself out. His breathing gradually slowed to normal. He stayed where he was for a few moments longer, clinging to Clint, his legs curling against the edge of the building as if to anchor himself, both to solid ground and to reality.

            “Sorry about your shirt,” he said finally, his voice raw and husky.

            “Don’t worry about it. I have more.” Clint ran his fingers through Phil’s admittedly sparse hair. “Are you okay now?”

            “Yeah…yeah, I think so.” Phil raised his head and looked up at Clint, who was gazing at him with a tender, loving expression. “God, I love you.”

            “I love you, too.” Clint kissed his forehead. “And that’s never gonna change. You know that, right?”

            “I do,” Phil said, quietly and sincerely.

            Clint went absolutely still. Phil was about to start panicking—had Clint seen something coming, something that would put them all in danger?—when the other man said softly, “I hope I’ll be able to hear you say those words in vastly different circumstances—someday soon.”

            It was Phil’s turn to freeze. Clint couldn’t—there was no way he meant what it sounded like he meant, and yet…“Clint, what are you saying?”

            “Marry me, Phil.” Clint’s voice was urgent and desperate and loving all at once. “I’ve got nothing to offer you, nothing to give you but my love, but…I can’t live without you. I’ve tried, and it almost killed me. Literally. This isn’t how I planned on asking, insofar as I planned on asking at all, but…I’m asking anyway. Philip J. Coulson, will you marry me?”

            For an answer, Phil stood up, hauled Clint to his feet by the front of his shirt, and kissed him, hard and hot. Clint made a muffled noise of surprise, then wrapped his arms around Phil and returned the kiss with equal fervor.

            “I take it that’s a yes?” he said in a husky voice as he broke it at last.

            Phil chuckled throatily, cupping the back of Clint’s head with one hand and pressing their foreheads together. “That’s a _hell_ yes.”

            “Like I said, I’ve got nothing to offer you…”

            “You think I give a damn? I don’t. I don’t want anything, Clint. I just want _you._ ” Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so happy. The euphoria drained away, though, as suddenly as it had come, and he pulled back slightly, his eyes anxiously searching Clint’s face. “It—it might be a while. I can’t—not while we’re trying to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.—and with Fitz—”

            “I understand, Phil,” Clint said softly. He ran a hand over Phil’s cheek lightly. “I’m more than willing to wait, as long as I have to. But…the waiting will be easier knowing what I’m waiting for. You know what I mean?”

            Phil nodded in complete comprehension. However long they would have to wait before they could have any kind of wedding—even just going to the courthouse and signing the contract before a J.P.—it would be worth it to know that someday, they _would_ be married, and they _wouldn’t_ have to leave each other again. They had each other, and they always would. It was as simple as that.

            The first drops of rain hit him on the top of the head. He squinted up at the sky. “We’d better get in,” he said, half to himself.

            “Yeah,” Clint murmured, obviously reluctant.

            Phil turned, twining his fingers through Clint’s, and started towards the door. He got no more than two steps before the clouds opened up. From a light drizzle, it proceeded straight to a heavy downpour.

            “ _Aargh!”_ Phil ducked his head, as if that would protect him, and picked up the pace. But Clint pulled him back, and when Phil turned around, he could see that his lover—his _fiancé—_ was laughing.

            “What’s your hurry?” he said, drawing Phil back into his arms. “We’re already wet now. No point in rushing.”

            Phil felt a grin spread across his face. He slid his arms around Clint’s neck and kissed him. They stood together in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, but warmed from within rather than chilled to the bone. Phil forgot about S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA, about the dead and the disloyal, and focused on the man in his arms and the lips beneath his.

            Whatever happened from here on out, they had each other, for better or for worse. And right then, that was all that mattered.


End file.
